


Urges

by charisma_carne



Category: Tom Hardy - Fandom, Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018), Venom - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Tentacle Monsters, smut as character study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-04-29 22:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14482542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charisma_carne/pseuds/charisma_carne
Summary: Anne Weying and the evolution of a monster-fucker in thirteen parts.





	1. rush

It starts with B-grade horror movies swiped from the rental store at the end of their block.

Anne Weying at age thirteen is meticulous. She smooths the emerald and navy pleats of her school uniform, adjusts the matching headband over her slick blonde hair, and marches straight up to the counter to make her demands for more educational viewing options heard. The clerk, wide eyes fixed on Anne’s jabbing finger, doesn’t look up when the bell above the door clanks.

Eddie Brock at age thirteen walks like a hooligan in training. Shoulders sloped, head down. He copied it from his worn-out tape of _On the Waterfront_ , but to Anne the walk seems closer to what his dog does whenever Ed Brock lands a drunken kick. Anne pictures Eddie ducking behind the one-day rentals, darting across to the horror section. He’s quick but not when he’s nervous. Anne worries about him as words flow from her mouth—"Queens is becoming a cultural wasteland,” she quotes her mother, “and this establishment is contributing to its swift decline.” The bell clanks a second time.

Anne leaves a few minutes later with a free rental of _National Geographic_ and a rush of adrenaline that carries her into Eddie’s building.

Eddie is pacing the modest length of his living room when Anne bursts in. “We shouldn’t’a done that,” he says, wringing his hands.

Anne dives for his backpack. Instead of _Child’s Play_ or _Nightmare on Elm Street,_ she finds titles she’s never heard of: _Inseminoid, The Beast Within, Bride of the Monster_. Eddie drops to his knees beside her to confess his panic. Anne tells him he can make it up to her next time.

Every other Saturday, after Anne’s violin lessons, before Eddie’s mom gets off the late shift, they gorge on R-rated content and buttered popcorn in front of the TV, a blanket over their laps. The charged space between them is bridged by innumerable excuses—blood, gore, jump scares. Anne clings to Eddie’s arm, exhilaration crawling under her skin. He shields her from the very worst parts, which he forces himself to watch through a wince. Anne always knows when it’s safe to look, but she swats at Eddie anytime he forgets to tell her.

Their first kiss, hers and his, is set to _Hellraiser_. A shy brushing of lips becomes an awkward press of teeth and tongues. Clinging touches become rubbing bodies—unleashing a shocking movement beneath Eddie’s jeans more terrifying than any celluloid monster.

Alone on her side of the couch, Anne has to strain to hear the movie over the thud of her pulse. On screen, grotesque demons make obscene gestures toward a sobbing girl. “You must come with us,” the leader says, “taste our pleasures.” She bargains. He threatens: “We’ll tear your soul apart.” Anne shivers, knees clamped tight.

•


	2. shame

Forest Park a shadowy expanse of gnarled branches at their backs, Anne and Eddie sprawl on a blanket on the edge of the crowd. The giant screen erected on the lawn displays two Fifties teens caught in the act, blood and screams the predictable outcome.

“Price of sin,” Eddie remarks, making eyes at Anne as he squeezes her bare toes with his.

Snorting, Anne draws her foot up the length of Eddie’s leg, toeing the edge of his mesh shorts. He grins, eyes dropping as he picks up her ankle between his big hands. Anne falls back on her elbows for a better angle. Eddie places a single kiss on the arch of her foot, sending a spark racing up her leg.

God, she loves him. The little shove of her toes in his face is in retaliation for taking until senior year to ask her out.

“Watch it.” Eddie puts her foot on the ground, rights her skit. “Fancy school and no manners.” He tuts at her. His lips are so full and lush Anne feels indecent even looking at them.

She gives Eddie her straight-A class president smile before she feigns a shiver and slips into his lap.

His arms envelop her even as he complains, “Jesus, what do they teach you uptown, huh?”

“All the subjects,” Anne murmurs. “History. Chemistry.”  She wriggles back so her ass sits flush against his crotch. “Wanna know what I’ve learned about friction?”

Eddie gives an assessing grunt, which Anne decides is encouragement. It’s dark enough that she doesn’t bother flipping the blanket over her knees, just guides Eddie’s big hand under her skirt. The noise he makes right in her ear has her clit swelling before he even brushes the cotton between her thighs. Anne leans back, resting her head on Eddie’s broad shoulder and tilting close to his mouth so she doesn’t miss any of his harsh, giddy breaths.

He teases her for half the movie, one hand wandering under her clothes while the other rubs over her panties. When she presses too hard against the tent in his shorts, he lets out a groan and scoots back. His knees envelop hers, anchoring her to the spot.

Impatience makes her teeth grind like Jason’s chainsaw. The girls on the screen are screaming and running for their lives so Anne thinks, What the hell? Life is short, and Eddie has never told on her before. She wraps one hand around his thick wrist, pushes fabric back, and brings him home.

The invasion jolts through her. Not one finger but two, almost three, sliding inside of her slick hole. She’s been fingered before but soft and slow. This is—Anne shudders with the thrum of her clit. 

Eddie muffles, “Fuck,” against her shoulder blade again and again. His fingers twitch inside of her, but he doesn’t follow through on his muttering.

Anne rocks her own hips. Three fingers deep, the stretch burns in her belly. Spreads through her chest and pushes out her throat in a moan.

The fullness empties, a musk reaches her nostrils as Eddie’s palm clamps over her mouth. He shushes her but it’s too late. Heads have swiveled. A flashlight beam settles on Anne’s frozen face. An affronted voice of authority demands, ”What do you kids think you’re doing?”

Fear pricks behind Anne’s eyes. Her mother will kill her. Then she’ll bury Anne in extracurriculars, never to have a minute alone with Eddie again.

At this, at least, Eddie is faster than Anne is. More practiced. Eddie pushes Anne up, grabs their sandals, and pulls her by her elbow into the woods.

They dart further into the forest, hobbling over twigs and pebbles. This isn’t a horror film. It’s not even a chase. The park volunteer gives up almost before they begin. They keep running, Anne panting with adrenaline and laughter. Eddie stops them in the clearing. They lean close to help each other into their sandals. It’s then that Anne notices Eddie isn't laughing with her.

“Guess you’re the hardened kinda criminal, huh?” Anne remarks, laying the Queens on thick. She hasn’t decided yet whether she wants to get rid of the accent altogether. She winks up at Eddie, placing her palms on his chest and drawing down. 

Eddie turns his lower body away from her but not before Anne puts together a flat front and a damp spot and bites her lip over a smile. Eddie is a quick one all right. Scowling harder, he drops his head and pretends to fiddle with his sandal. “Criminals, psychopaths—what else turns you on?”

Anne’s blood drains to the bottom of her scratched-up feet, and she backs up. “Excuse me?”

Eddie, sullen and hunched, says to the ground, “Come on. Maybe you can fool your prep school boyfriends. Not me.”

Anne’s mouth twists with her stomach. “Fool them?” she demands.

Moonlight casts a shadow over Eddie, making him taller, broader. A stranger. But she recognizes the hurt in his voice. “Little Miss Innocent. Your mom thinks I’m the corrupting influence.” He dredges up a laugh from that sour pit he always digs himself into at the worst possible moment. It's jealousy. And inadequacy and idiocy, not to mention one hell of a Catholic guilt complex—Anne has been a sounding board for Eddie’s neuroses for too damn long not realize she’s pushed him into lash-out mode.

Panicked tears still spill over. “I’m a virgin,” Anne tells him, hating the pleading note.

“That one of those, what, technicalities? You’re gonna make a hell of a lawyer, Wey.” Eddie kicks a rock sideways.

At school, Anne is a priss and a prude—better than the alternative. She’s seen SLUT spray-painted on too many lockers, blood red and dripping. She and Eddie used to have their own little world. She was supposed to be safe with him.

On a hateful sob, she says, “Go fuck yourself, Eddie Brock.”

Anne turns and stomps away from him. Eddie follows after, already apologizing. Anne hugs herself despite the heat, already knowing from years of experience that she can’t stay mad at his dumb ass no matter how hard she tries.

Forgiveness will come later. For now, she needs this anger and this hurt and this shame to let the lesson sink in:

No one is safe.

•


	3. hurt

They date through college, Anne at Cornell and Eddie on scholarship at CUNY. They get an apartment together for grad school. Anne studies law at Columbia. Eddie mumbles his way into a full ride at NYU for journalism.

Every other Sunday, Eddie sits next to Anne at the Weying dining room table. He hunches over a dish everyone in the room knows he can’t pronounce and doesn’t meet curious, affronted stares. Anne’s father thinks Eddie must be some kind of idiot savant. He calls him Rain Man alone with Anne, a step up from Lennie. Anne’s mother sits in silence, bites her tongue. Anne knows her mother sees a stopwatch ticking down above their heads. Anne sees it, too, whenever Eddie says anything to make her eyes roll up.

Eddie was raised a few buildings down from Anne but it might as well have been another planet. She can’t take him anywhere. Wining and dining is necessary to get her career off the ground, and Eddie can’t sit still, won’t keep his mouth shut about the dirt he can sniff out about anyone and anything at any time. He talks while he chews.

When they fight, he puts his hands against the nearest surface. Ed Brock was a clenched fist and bloody knuckles until the day his heart gave out. Eddie—palms flat, fingers spread—leans against their unbroken wall. His head hangs low under the weight of his father’s disgust.

In those moments, if Anne wants to make up she knows to be gentle. To approach in his eye-line. To slide her hand under his shirt, up his back. Rub soothing circles over skin damp with exertion and muscles bunched tight. She hugs him from behind, lays her head between his shoulder blades, and breathes with him. Eddie can be the sweetest lover. Never more tender than when he is remorseful.

Anne doesn’t always want to make up. When she’s thinking straight, she walks away. She slams a door. She screams over her shoulder what a stupid asshole he is. She stays with her parents. When she isn’t thinking straight—

They are fighting about dinner. Eddie with his phone in hand ready to call for fucking takeout, he didn’t mean any-fucking-thing by it. And Annie at the stove turning on all the burners, telling him, no, no, he deserves a home cooked meal, the bar exam can wait. Eddie pushes into her space to turn off the stove before she burns the goddamn place down. She tries to shove him away with her hip, yelling about the size of this rathole apartment and how fire could only improve things. He tells her to go live with that trust fund asshole in her study group, he’s tired of her stuck-up bullshit. She lies and says, why not, they’re already fucking. Eddie says he always knew she was a slut, so Anne smacks the everloving shit out of him.

Eddie puts his hands against the countertop on either side of Anne, his hung head butting against her neck. Anne is taut with anger, anticipation, willing Eddie to do something. Anything. They both breathe hard.

Anne bares her teeth, winds back to smack Eddie again, but he grabs her wrists, pins them to the counter. A rush of lust coils in Anne’s core. She strains against Eddie’s strength to gnash their teeth together, lips smearing over each other’s skin. Low in the back of his throat, Eddie whines and rumbles. The vibrations move from his tongue to Anne’s. She scrapes her teeth on him. Eddie wrenches back to stare at her, puckered lip curled up. She twists in his grip. Her hips strain.

“Wipe that dumbass look off your face,” Anne tells him.

Eddie grunts. Leans in so close his cheek bristles against hers. Into her ear, he rumbles, “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Anne latches onto his ear, sucking and rolling, mimicking what she knows Eddie wants to do to her clit. She breaks one arm free and goes right for his belt, his zipper. She takes his hot, hard cock in her hand and squeezes until he moans.

Whatever the fuck is wrong with her, Anne needs it to be wrong with Eddie, too.

“Ah,” Eddie bites off, his cock constricted in her hand. He yanks her hand away, shoves it against her crotch where her yoga pants are soaked all the way through. “Slut.” The accusation comes out strangled. He watches how it crackles through her.

Anne mewls, rubs herself against their joined fingers. She stares at Eddie’s thick cock jutting overtop his open jeans. He could fill her mouth to the back of her throat with one thrust. Her legs weaken, but they lock of their own volition. Even like this, she can’t fall to her knees with her legs spread wide. She needs to be pushed. Eddie is staring, eyes clouded. “You idiot,” she pants, hips circling. “Do something.”

He grunts. In two jerking motions, Eddie spins her to face the counter and yanks down fabric to expose her soaking wet cunt to cool air. He tears off her shirt, and she elbows him for pulling her hair. He gathers its mass in one hand, arching her back. Pleasure spreads from her roots. Wetness trickles down the inside of her thighs.

The slick head of Eddie’s cock parts her dripping folds. He groans so loud and so deep, Anne feels it through his chest. In a voice she’s never heard before, he purrs, “Something like this?” He fucks into her, spearing her pussy lips open against rough denim.

Anne cries out, open-mouthed and shocked.

Eddie pulls back. “Annie—” he starts, remorse coloring the rough edges of his voice.

The easiest way to bring him around would be to give him a wink. Make him think she’s just messing with him. Act cute. Let him love her.

Anne puts her knee on the counter. “Fuck me like you have a trust fund.”

Eddie takes hold of her hips in his rough hands and bottoms out in one vindictive thrust. “Stuck-up bitch,” he growls into her arched back. Sparks flash behind her eyes every time his pelvis jolts against her ass. He pushes her onto her belly, sideways across the counter. Onto the stovetop.

Residual heat from the coils hisses along her flattened breasts. She sucks in her cries for fear Eddie will stop bucking into her with such wild abandon.

“You slut,” he grunts in her ear. “Slut, slut, slut,” with every thrust.

Oh, it hurts. Anne’s face screws up hard enough that tears leak from her eyelids. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. It hurts, it hurts so fucking good.

Anne comes in waves, each one spreading further through her body. From her grasping cunt to her clenched belly. Her thumping heart and tight throat to her trembling thighs and pointed toes.

Eddie’s heavy thighs slide up hers when he jerks and spurts into her cunt. No consideration, no quarter. He lies his upper body on top of her, both of them ragged. For a moment, she can’t breathe for the weight of him.

He peels her off her in a hurry. Lifts her up under her boneless arms so she’s sitting bare-assed and leaking on their kitchen countertop. Into her tangled hair, Eddie asks, “Are you really fucking someone else?” It’s his voice again, high and pained. Just like when they were young.

“No,” she whispers. In her mind, she thinks, yes, of course. She just did. So did he.

“Annie.”

Bleary, she smiles and pulls back to let him see it. She’s ready now for gentle.

But the soft gray eyes that meet hers are stricken. Eddie is seeing her swollen lip. Together, they take in the red welts streaking her chest. The bruises darkening over her hip bones.

His face crumples. “No,” he says. Anguish and confusion confront her. “Why did you—” Eddie cuts himself off with a wounded noise. Turns away from her to stuff his limp cock back into his pants.

Anne opens her mouth. Why did she what? Goad him on. Swallow back the pain. Come so hard she can’t stand.

Eddie won’t look at her. He’s too choked up. “I was never gonna hurt you.”

What the fuck is wrong with her?

It isn’t fair that Eddie is taking the blame. It isn’t fair that Anne is the one to cry. That all she has to do is hold out her arms, and Eddie comes over to cradle her like she deserves it.

The truth she realizes is this: their fights are never about dinner or trust funds or manners or fucking other people. They are about a past they cherish for different reasons and a future neither of them actually believes in.

They owe it to each other to get through graduation.

Eddie takes a job with _The Daily Globe._ Anne accepts a six-figure salary and a first class ticket to San Francisco.

They exchange I'll-always-love-you goodbyes at JFK airport.

They swear they'll keep in touch.

•


	4. kink

In San Francisco, Anne pays a psychiatrist to perform an exorcism of her mother’s voice from her head. She makes a best friend who, with the sweetest condescension, calls Anne’s torrid saga with Eddie vanilla kink. Anne kicks ass and makes a name as an attorney not to be trifled with. As Laura’s guest, Anne picks through a mansion littered with bodies writhing in carnal displays. It’s transgressive and shocking and not a little bit silly. Anne watches over a martini glass. She pays her dues.

With a wink, Laura had promised her tastes would rub off on Anne. And they have. She likes the big, handsome boys with don’t talk much. Likes telling them what to do and where to do it. Likes it best when they forget themselves, shove her into the mattress. Take what they want.

Anne tells Laura every lurid detail but this.

Anne’s psychiatrist does not ask about her sex life, only her relationships. She has a man, Matt, to take to partner meetings and fundraisers. Then another, James. David. Mark.

Anal is something Anne works toward like she had her degrees or her confirmation. She finds it messy, undignified. The first cock in her ass belongs to a man for whom the novelty, the thrill has worn off.

“How was it?” Laura asks Anne in Aruba.

“Vanilla kink.”

Alone in her own bed, Anne balances her laptop on her naked thighs and watches a gangbang porn legend get fucked in all her holes. The first time Anne sees a fist slide in, she knocks wine over on her duvet. Drunk, she buys a vibrator thicker than her wrist in hopes of stopping there.

The pornography Laura enjoys—or seems to enjoy, Anne has resigned herself to everyone having their secrets—is capital-a Art. Anne is meant to note the bruising along the man’s rib cage as a metaphor for creation and a punishment for original sin. Anne learns how to reference homages to German arthouse cinema so obvious they are scarcely worth mentioning. Galleries featuring works in the medium of menstrual blood become old hat.

Whenever Anne slips up and mentions a nostalgic fondness for horror flicks or street vendors or Bloomingdale’s, Laura clucks her blueblood tongue. “You can take the girl out of Queens…”

The Christmas after her fifth promotion, Anne returns the prodigal daughter. Over breakfast with her parents—so silent now they have nothing to criticize—Anne searches _The_ _Daily Globe_ for Eddie’s byline.

They have a drink at a dive bar owned by Eddie’s cousin. So great to catch up, she tells him. He asks how she sleeps at night knowing her employer represents scum.

“Champion of the people,” he calls himself, that big mouth of his twisted with a self-deprecation she’d like to chew off.

“Bougie bitch,” Anne calls herself, blood red lipstick staining her glass. She wore a cheaper brand that night, knowing Eddie will imagine it smeared on his cock.

He’s upgraded from their grad school apartment but just barely. The sheets are still warm from the dryer. A surge of fondness rushes through her sitting on Eddie’s bed, watching him play host. He brings the glasses but forgets the ice. He’s scowling to cover up nerves.

Anne stretches out her leg to stop him leaving, pointed toe at his crotch. “I don’t want ice.”

“No?” Eddie’s rasp is the kind that can’t hide lust, not even from one syllable.

She leans back on her elbows and shakes out her freshly cut hair. She’s wearing a red turtleneck sweater, a green and red checkered skirt. San Francisco is three thousand miles away. This apartment might as well be eight years ago. But Anne uses her big girl voice to say, “I want you to fuck me.”

Eddie is on her in an instant. His compact frame is heavy with new muscle. He smells like his first cologne, the one she picked for him. And downy fabric softener and clean sweat. Even as articles of clothing go flying, his mouth never seems to leave her. No one kisses Anne like Eddie does. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t get the deepest taste of her.

No longer is Anne too shy to tell Eddie where she wants his mouth. How much she appreciates his tongue. He moans against her pussy lips when she comes with a shout. She slides a hand down to grasp his hair. “Good boy,” she purrs into his hooded eyes. She tightens her thighs against his bristly cheeks. “Do it again.”

Sucking and licking her clit until she’s pulsing, Eddie surges up to shove his pussy-soaked tongue between her teeth.

“Get back—” she groans at his cock sliding against her outer folds “—down there.”

Eddie holds himself up. “Wanna boss me around?”

Anne nips at a Neanderthal bicep.

“Or do you want me to fuck you?”

Laughing at Eddie spreading her into position, at the gush between her thighs for his manhandling, Anne teases, “Am I threatening your masculinity?”

“Since we were kids.” Eddie notches his cockhead against the heat of her entrance.

“Aw, poor ba—”

Eddie clamps a hand over her mouth and fucks into Anne.

She stiffens—“Sorry, sorry,” Eddie pants, taking his hand away—but she's not offended. Eddie slows down, takes his time to get the feel of her again. She holds her breath in preemptive shame. It’s a myth, the patriarchy, locker room cruelty. Like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, they’d taunt a girl to make her die inside. Still, Anne worries her cunt is not what it was. That she’ll see the difference written in disgust on Eddie’s face.

All she sees is banked need.

Eddie bites down on his lip to stop stroking. Cups her face. “Am I hurting you?”

Relaxed by relief, Anne lifts her legs onto Eddie’s broad back. With a saucy smile, taunts, “Think you could?”

There is shame here, too. For wanting something so basic. To be held down. Fucked into oblivion. You can’t take Queens out of the girl—but you can make her come. Howling and scratching. Eddie twitches inside of her, erupts at the sound of his name.

After, they lie on their sides to catch their breaths.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Eddie arranges her sweat-soaked hair, twisting it to pile on the pillow. Anne complained a lot, once upon a time, about him rolling over on it.

Mark is her boyfriend. Eddie knows the internet too well not to know that. Anne gives him what he wants—the truth. “I haven’t fallen in love with anybody else.”

The pressed curve of his smile is worth every breakup, the scratch of her psychiatrist’s pen. “Me neither,” Eddie says, wrapping her in his arms.

Anne is already thinking about having him again in the morning before she slips out for Christmas with the Weyings. An evening flight will whisk Anne back to her real world. She thinks she would enjoy it if Eddie fucked her ass. But she’s too soft for the way he’s gazing at her, wrecked and sweet, to risk his sensibilities. She kisses his lips, cuddles to his chest, and falls asleep sticky with his come.

•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long overdue update! Suffice to say the new trailer got the ideas churning again. I appreciate all of your comments!!! So happy to hear you're finding the slow burn interesting. Expect weekly updates going forward!


	5. fear

Anne knows her firm doesn’t work for the best of people. She doesn’t need Eddie to remind her of that. But of course he does. Eddie is her man of the people. Her crusader. Why it took her so many years to appreciate that, Anne couldn’t say.

She never imagined Eddie in San Francisco. Needed to never picture him here to start a life. Now that he’s sitting next to her it’s like that life has snapped into place. Their knees are pressed close, their bodies angled toward each other’s warmth.

Eddie is woefully underdressed for the bar they’re in, but Anne couldn’t care less. Somewhere around thirty-five, she stopped giving a fuck about the things that don’t make her feel good. Eddie makes her feel damn good.

Even when he’s berating her, gently, about the ethics of her firm, she doesn’t take it as a personal attack. She’ll do him this favor. She likes that he’ll owe her one. It makes it easier to look at him.

What Anne wants from Eddie is bigger than a favor.

They’re broken up, still. Everything between them remains unresolved. But a tension as familiar as it is coiled keeps them locked together. A story brought Eddie to San Francisco, but Anne’s calling it fate. The universe is giving them one more chance to get themselves right. It’s a scary prospect.

When it comes right down to it, Anne is afraid of a lot of things.

It’s only an interview, she tells herself. Behave yourself, she tells Eddie. But Carlton Drake is more than the run-of-the-mill Silicon Valley visionary. The Life Foundation is more than a multi-billion dollar corporation. For a lot more people than she realized, Drake is a Prophet and the Foundation is his Revelation. Anne is too agnostic for that to sit right with her, no matter how big a game she talks to impress her high school sweetheart.

So when things go wrong—when Eddie goes wrong—Anne is not too proud to admit she’s out of her mind scared.

The courtroom is where she’s always been brave. The bedroom is where she’s tried to get braver. Kidnappings, explosions, vehicle chases, Messiah-complex villainy, ticking clocks of doom, and alien goddamn lifeforms from outer goddamn space are not in the Anne Weying wheelhouse.

"You have no idea how much you're scaring me right now," she says before she knows the full scope of what she should fear.

But Anne does what humans have always done best. She adapts. She survives.

For Eddie, she has to be strong. Because he’ll push her away if he thinks she’ll get hurt.

No, it’s worse than that. He’ll push her away if he thinks he’ll hurt her. He’s always been like that. He was never going to hurt her, but once he did—once she drove him to it—he shrank away.

One of her last nights in New York, before San Francisco, Anne shared a cigarette with his mother on the couch where she’d had her first kiss. “Brocks aren’t bad men,” Marge had said, the smoke wrinkling around her. “Trouble comes when they get it in their heads that they are. Becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Marge Brock’s son always thought of it as a taint, having Ed’s blood in his veins. Never could see how much more like his soft-hearted, hard-working mother he is.

The first time Anne sees him become— _that_ —her heart sinks, thudding to the pit of her stomach. Eddie’s eyes have been bloodshot, his whole body has been sweating, twitching ever since his exposure to the symbiote. It’s lightyears different knowing a thing and seeing black tendrils of sentient alien goo overtake the man she loves.

Her crusader, who never caught a break, wields a power he admits is not completely awful. But what Eddie gains in teeth, in strength he loses in conscience.

Self-fulling prophecy.

Eddie always saw himself as a monster.

Anne will stand by him, the way she couldn’t when they were young. He’ll push away and she’ll push in. But Anne won’t be able to say she’s not afraid. Not of Eddie, never him. But the monster, the symbiote. Venom. She’s afraid of _that_ , of  _them_.

Because the first time they set those eyes—flat, white, alien—on her, Anne almost vomits. Venom grins that horrifying leer. Wraps their tendrils around her roiling gut and moves her to out of the way of one kind of harm. They stare and chuckle so deep the sound of it touches the inside of her mind where Anne has always been safe. Alone. Secret.

When those tendrils leave her body with the whisper of a caress across her thundering pulse points, Anne knows she’s been seen for who she is and what she’s always wanted.

And that fucking terrifies her.

•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super vague for obvious reasons—I have no idea what happens in the movie or where it leaves our...thruple. But I used the trailers for hints and am crossing my fingers this doesn't become a total AU when October comes around. If it does? Ah well! Forward hoe, we got smut to uncover. ;) 
> 
> Comments bring me life! Please let me know we're all in this madness together!


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